Then There Were Three
by Godzilla720
Summary: Basically Sherlock's, Jim's and Mycroft's kids are best friends. Lots of OC's- Hamish Holmes/ Celia Moriarty/Louel Holmes.
1. A Meeting

_An idea of mine. Thought you may like it. Might have been used before, sorry if it has been. Hope I bring new things to it._

Cecilia looked around, just in case. No one seemed to be watching, which was good. Dad was preoccupied and Sebby was busy shooting down some unfortunate fool. She didn't have anyone hovering, or making sure she didn't get into any trouble. She was planning to get into trouble, of course. It was her favorite past time, after all.

She crouched down in the bushes, watching the passers by, waiting fore the right person to go past. Celia was careful to get as much as her skirt dirty as she could, while still looking as if it had been an accident.

And there they were. She didn't know _how _she knew, but she knew. She crept slowly at first, waiting for them to go past, so that they were two feet in front of her. She then started to follow them down the paved path. It was a tall man with a large, dark coat and a blue scarf. Next to him was what appeared to be his son, who had roughly cut hair and a jumper with stripes. She was cursing her Mary Jane's at the moment, wishing she had a nice pair of sneakers.

The tall man suddenly swung around, glaring. "Why are you following us?' He demanded, reminding her of Seb when she tagged behind him at home, enjoying the way his face would turn a funny color. Her answer was immediate and to the point.

"Because I'm bored." The tall man blinked then spoke just as quickly as her.

"Then find something else to do, or someone else to stalk!" And with that he turned back around, heading the way he had been going before. Cecilia followed.

It took another three minutes, but he did eventually turn back around again.

"I thought I told you to go away?" She stared up with big hazel eyes, hands behind her back as she shifted foot to foot.

She stayed silent, staring into his eyes, a battle of the wills, before she screamed out, "BORED." And folded her arms. "I hate the park. There's always someone on the swings, and daddy doesn't like it when i get my skirts dirty."

"Cecilia!" Her dad had found her. And was now running over to her.

"What have you done to your skirt!" Jim Moriarty was a criminal mastermind, but he was now also a single dad, with a daughter who didn't particularly care for rules. His life now revolved around her, and her wants and needs and decisions along with her odd moods and bouts of boredom. He just really hated it when she got her pretty skirts filthy

"I've gotten it dirty." She spoke stoutly, not noticing the way her dad, and the tall man were now looking at each other. She was looking at the scruffy, bright eyed boy who was next to the tall man.

"Hi." She said, waving a hand. "I'm Cecilia, but you can call me Celia." The boy watched her with big eyes, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"Dad and Papa tell me I shouldn't talk to strangers." He said nervously.

She smirked her fathers smirk. "Well, I'm not a stranger anymore. You know my name." The boy considered this for a moment before deciding it was true.

"I'm Hamish." Celia have him a warm smile, as her eyes twinkled with mischief. She glanced up at the two adults, and seeing they were absorbed in their own conversation looked back at Hamish and nodded towards the gathering of trees and bushes.

"Lets go!" She stage whispered, before running off, expecting the Hamish boy to follow.

He didn't He stood dumbstruck. The girl had just gotten caught for running off, and now she was doing it again!? Uncle Mycroft would be horrified.

She was disappointed, both by the realization that Hamish hadn't followed her, and that her dad had noticed, and was now heading her way, big coated man staring after him in what looked to be astonishment.

"Cecilia Thistle Moriarty! What have I told you, repeatedly, about running off?" She grinned up at him, looking as innocent as a doll.

"Not to?" She said it like a question, but she knew perfectly well that she wasn't supposed to be running about without either Seb or dad knowing where she was.

"We're done with the park." Her dad said firmly, holding out a hand, in a silent demand for her to get up. She sighed, working to sound exasperated.

"Fine!" She rose from her crouch, reveling her now very dusty Mary Jane's. "When is Sebby coming home!? I want him to play with me!" Jim smirked, shaking his head, as he held his daughters hand, leading her out of the park that they often visited. The big coated man stared after them, his son looking at his father and the strange, rude girl, back and forth.

"I'll play. I've finished work." 'For the time being' he tacked on at the end.

She shook her head, exasperated.

"You have to change to play. You only wear your stupid suits!" Jim sighed, tired of the argument Celia put up against his suits every time he offered to play. She had some sort of long living grudge against them. One time he had caught her about to burn his closet.

"I can change, I suppose." Her whole face changed, turning into one of delight.

"Really!? Yes!" She shouted in victory, before half launching herself into the back of his car. Jim had to contain his laughter. His changing clothes wouldn't be nearly as troublesome now. His daughter was simply elated. And plus, he had run into Sherlock. Moriarty knew he was alive of course, but Sherlock hadn't know Jim had carefully staged his death as well. His old nemesis's face was enough to lift even the most unhappy mans spirits.

_Like it, hate it? Tell me either way. _


	2. Sleeping, Insomnia and a Frog

_I got two reviews, but a whole lot of favorites and followers, which is awesome... but reviews are nice too. *Hint, hint*_

Hamish was trying very hard to get called on, but Ms. Myers kept choosing all the stupid kids to answer, and it was making Hamish mad. All he wanted to do was answer a maths question. Dad and Papa always told him that he should always raise his hand if he knew the answer, and he was, but he wasn't getting called on. He hated when this happened, because then his arm would hurt, and when he put it down it would go all pin and needles. He would switch to the other arm, and that one would hurt after a while too.

Uncle Mycroft was still trying to convince Papa that Hamish would be better at Louel's school, but Papa didn't like that idea. Hamish liked his cousin, so maybe her school wouldn't be so bad. Anything would be better than Ms. Myers maths class. This, Hamish was sure of.

Hamish's thoughts turned to other things, since he knew all the answers to the questions in the book, and Ms. Myers wasn't paying attention to him anyhow.

The first thing his mind wondered to was the thought of was the rude girl from yesterday. He remembered the way Papa and her dad had spoken, and how angry Papa had looked. She had looked funny, in a pretty skirt that had mud at the very bottom and a button up shirt tucked in all around except for one place where it stuck out from the waistband of her skirt. Her hair had been a dark brown color and her eyes a greenish hazel. He wondered if her mum had had green eyes, because her dad had brown ones. Hamish himself, had his dads eyes and his mums nose.

"Mr. Holmes?" He was drawn out of his thought by the voice of his teacher.

"Mr. Holmes, can you answer number 13?" He looked down at his book.

"32." His teacher looked ruffled.

"Yes, very good, but I'll ask you to pay attention in my class." She said, before moving onto someone else. Hamish payed attention for the rest of the class, however boring the work was.

Later, at home, Hamish finished up his Homework, shoving his various books into his bag. It had been notoriously easy, and he could almost feel his brain melting. Papa was home, and was working on an experiment. But that didn't deter Hamish. He was going to ask about the girl. All through his day he had been thinking about it, and the meager homework had done nothing to distract his attention.

"Who is Cecilia? The girl at the park yesterday? And why were you so angry with that man?" Papa froze before going on with his work.

"No one, you needent worry about her. We wont be seeing her again. Ever." Papa spoke harshly, not allowing room for argument. Hamish decided that was enough prying for one day, even though Papa hadn't answered his third question.

At the Moriarty household, Celia was busy running about, her new pet frog hidden away in her pocket, letting out a 'ribbid' every once in a while. She was running to find a hiding spot. Her father and her were playing hide and seek, one of the games that were easily played in the house, because it was more of a manor than anything else. Hide and seek was Celia's favorite, and she was sure she would never tier of the game.

"I'm coming, ready or not!" Her dad yelled out, his bare feet soundless against all surfaces. She giggled, tucking herself into the nearby hall closet, where the mops and brooms hid away. She crouched down, savoring the feeling of jeans, and socks. Celia hated walking around barefoot, nearly as much as she hated her skirts. Her feet always got cold and often got splintered by the unfinished hardwood floors in the attic, where she often spent her time. Dad had to get his tweezers and pluck them from the soles of her feet and pads of her toes, which made her eyes water terribly. She hated when that happened.

Moriarty checked the attic first, then the kitchens and then the various hallways, opening each door he found. Eventually, after nearly half an hour of looking, he found her, curled up in a mop and broom crowded cupboard, sleeping. Her breaths were slow and steady, dark brown hair splayed dramatically against the checker board tiles of the floor. He chuckled, glad to find he would not have to hide for an hour while his daughter looked in every place imaginable, except for where he was hiding. He was starting to suspect she just enjoyed keeping him waiting.

Moriarty crouched down, scooping up Cecilia. This reminded him of the first week she had spent with him, at 9 and a half months old, and how he had learned how to perfectly pick her up without waking her. It stuck with him, the easy graceful move he had to make, slow, but fluid and perfectly done. The way he had to rise slowly, and keep her level. She wasn't very heavy, as she had always been a fairly small child, so he had no problem under her weight.

Celia instinctively snuggled into the warmth of her fathers chest, and let out a content sigh. She was somewhere in between sleep and semi alertness. But sleep sounded delightful, and she found herself slipping slowly toward that option. The fact that her father had found her so soon didn't bother her much. After all, it had taken him a good half hour.

Hamish didn't understand why, but the rude girl kept him from sleep. He shifted a few times, turning to his right, then left side, but that didn't help. It wasn't his position, it was the thought of the rude girl. Cecilia. Celia, she had told him to call her. Who was she, and why had Papa been so angry at her father? Why had dad gone white when Hamish had mentioned her and Papa and told him about the man? Why did Hamish care, and why did she want to be his friend?

Hamish didn't like being confused, and this girl was making him confused. He often heard the older boys and girls taunt one of the others, about liking someone. Hamish didn't understand why that would matter, but he supposed, from the short time he had spent with the girl, he had liked her. She had seemed alright, although very rude.

Maybe Uncle Mycroft could help. Uncle Mycroft usually knew things that most people didn't so he could help with Hamish's problem. But he doubted Uncle Mycroft would be coming by any time soon, or that Papa would be very happy to see him. Hamish liked his Uncle, unlike Papa, because his Uncle often told funny story's about Papa and Dad, back when Hamish wasn't around. They didn't take nearly as many cases with a son to worry about. Hamish's favorite adventure was the story of Sherlock wearing just a sheet to Buckingham palace. He found himself giggling every time that one was told, mainly because he couldn't imagine it. How did his father work up the courage to stroll into the heart of England, in nothing but a sheet? Hamish knew his Papa was very brave, but the _heart of the English Nation_!

While Hamish found this funny, Uncle Mycroft told the story with disdain although he did tell the tale every time he was requested to, usually by Hamish, and once by John. He was powerless when it came to his nephew, although he had refused when John had asked.

But what if Uncle Mycroft didn't know anything? Perhaps Mrs. Hudson then again... She didn't often know much, other than how to bake. There was always the option of just asked Papa again, but Hamish found himself internally recoiling at the very thought it. Dad was usually nice, and understanding, but he had looked so scared and _angry _when he had been told. Hamish had only seen dad that angry when Hamish had broken his arm at the park, while Papa texted, oblivious. Hamish didn't remember it well, as he had been very young, but he remembered bits, his memory like a puzzle with half its pieces missing.

Hamish was still confused, and couldn't go to sleep. And, to make things worse, he had school tomorrow. The rude girl was ruining everything.

Celia woke early the next morning, stretching. Her tutor would be coming over at 10:30, and so she started her day, first by waking up her groggy father.

_So? Did you like the way things were laid out, or do you think I should try a different way of skipping scenes. Tell me all your thoughts, ideas and (hopefully) praise, in the reviews._


	3. Anger, the Middle, and Bully

_Ok, I am so very sorry for not posting for such a stretched out amount of time. I have been busy, in my defense. Although that is an admittedly weak excuse. But I hope you enjoy this chapter never the less. _

Celia was giving her now coherent father a good morning hug when he told her the big news. "We're going to go visit a school today." Celia's first reaction was to quickly, and efficiently pull out of her fathers embrace.

"What." She spoke quietly, just as her dad did when he was angry. A sort of lazy, but scary tone, where the speaker would draw out vowels.

"A school, Cecilia. And don't try and argue. Sebby has spoken to you about it before, has he not? He's told you that eventually you would need introducing to children your age and-" He was cut off rather abruptly.

"I am not. A. Child." She said it in the way Sebby did when he was angry. Jim would have found it funny, if he did not know that his daughter was using it as a sort of shield to protect herself from other emotions she was most likely experiencing.

"Darling, this is for your own good. And its ok, if you want to hate me, but at the moment I need to get dressed, and so do you. We will eat breakfast, and I'll show you the schools that we're looking at." He didn't pull her back into a hug. He didn't expect her to cry, or hit him with her small fists. He did not get angry at her, when she left without a word, silence being her own choice of depicting anger. Because he knew that she would come 'round. And when she did it would all be fine.

Luella Holmes was a slightly chubby girl, with ginger hair like her father, and bright green eyes like her mystery mother. She was not pleasant, nor unpleasant. Not rosy cheeked nor pasty. Not either rude or polite. She was, in every sense of the word, in the middle. She was in the middle of her breakfast, when her father left hastily, with no peck on the crown of her head or even a 'I love you' goodbye. She was in the middle of finishing her maths work when a maid, her name easily forgotten, ushered her out, into one of fathers many town cars. And Luella was in the middle of walking through the gates of her school when she noticed her teachers showing a well groomed man around, his presumed daughter trailing behind, her eyes down cast and lips pursed in a quiet sort of anger.

_Visitors, looking at the school. _Was Luella's easily decided conclusion. Not anything special. The man was obviously rich, but that meant very little at this school, where a single month of tuition was more than a well payed lawyer probably makes in two years. But the man had something about him that made Luella's palms sweat. Maybe it was the way he smiled at Mrs. Cafta, the headmaster. Or maybe it was the way he payed no mind to his skulking daughter, who quiet clearly had no wish to be here. But what Luella felt was most suspicious, was that Lily Cameron's father, who supposedly had the day off was sneaking the other man little glances, filled to the brim with fear.

She walked over to the girl, examining with sharp eyes. The other girl wore jeans, with a bit off dirt on them and a sweatshirt on top. A tomboy then, judging by the way she slumped, her clothing and her hair, which although clean was put up in a messy pony tail. Most likely the father had let his daughter chose what to wear, so long as she came along with him to visit schools. A lopsided trade, but one that had clearly worked. It seemed highly unlikely that she had a mother. If she did have one, than her father wouldn't be visiting the schools alone.

By this time the other girl had realized Luella was inspecting her, and in turn had started analyzing Luella herself.

Celia raised an eye brow at the red head girl. Celia didn't like being watched without her permission, and the other girl looked as if she was decoding her. And so she decided to do the same back. Cecilia's eyes carefully roved over the other girls bigger frame. About 10 years old, approximately 150 pounds, and about 1 and a half meters. No siblings, going by the fact that she had come alone. Smart, considering she wasn't working on her home work like the other children. She had done it already. She was clearly a strict rule follower. And did not take well to new arrivals. Celia couldn't help but appreciate the latter observation. She didn't like anything that had 'new' attached to it either.

"And we have plenty of electives, such as art classes, music classes, dance classes and even fencing." At this Celia perked her head up. "What do you teach in music, and is the teacher any good?" Celia was already quiet adapt on the cello and violin, and wasn't half bad when it came to the piano either. She wasn't one for singing, so the choir was out, but she wouldn't mind having a go at the flute.

"We teach a wide range of things, including string, wind and brass instruments. All students are free to join the choir, and Mr. Franklin is willing to tutor any of his students in singing." Celia narrowed her eyes.

"No singing. I already know how to play the cello, violin and piano. I'm going to continue my classes outside school anyway, so there is no need for me to attend to those lessons, but I would be willing to undergo flute and possibly oboe classes."

Mrs. Cafta took this all in stride. "Very well. Does that mean you will be attending, Ms. Mairtyom?" Cecilia glanced at her father, who had a slight smirk on his face, to the ginger girl, who was now walking away, and back to Mrs. Cafta.

"Yes. I will be attending. When can I start?"

Hamish sighed as another school day ended. The great doors would be opening soon, allowing the mass of students, ages ranging five to 14, out. He wished he could be going somewhere else. Somewhere where his intellect would not get him beat up, and his ability to notice things not taken the wrong way.

One boy had shoved him up against a wall, in a hallway that had been completely empty today. Another had whispered freak every time he passed by, and one boy, with the help of his equally idiotic sister had hidden Hamish's text books in the girls toilet. He wanted to go where his cousin Luella was. She wasn't bullied, or mistreated. She wasn't ignored in class, or given too easy homework. He would bring it up with papa and dad. Perhaps they would decide to enroll him. Hopefully they would.

_Ok, so fairly long chapter. I hope that made up for the wait. Please review, and give suggestions and praises. Thanks a bunch. _


	4. 37, 7, 2

_**READ THIS**: OK, so I decided to make this a mitch matchy story where the characters never change, but the way it is written is different. And it will be out of order. I'm sorry if you don't like that, but I find I do. _

Hamish has a picture of Celia. In fact he has many. In print, on his phone, iPad and his various computers. Her photo is the background for his phone, and he has a few that are just for his eyes, only. But there is one photo that is held high above all others. And that is the picture that was taken on the day of Celia's 37th performance with her orchestra. There had been exactly 3,274 people watching and listening to her and her orchestra play. She had had 7 two hour performances lined up in only three days, and it was the last day. She was exhausted. It was the very last one before a four week break, and then off to Australia.

Only after the clapping had died down, and people were going out the four doors to the hallway did Celia collapse with a tired 'Urghm' into a chair. Hamish had sat right next to her, waiting. He knew she didn't like being touched when unwinding. She needed a moment, and a moment she would have. Her father had already heard the performance more times than could be counted on all 20 fingers and toes, so he had not been there that night. Hamish had come to every one, although after four of them he had learned to bring along a book.

"Celia. We have to go. The company is holding a party for you."

"No." Had been her stout reply.

"No?"

"No." She had confirmed. Hamish had nodded, understanding that she knew what was best for her. And she did look exhausted, he had thought. So he had led her out of the large concert hall, outside and down the four steps which had seemed like four miles to his half dead girlfriend.

"How about you stay here while I get the car? Sit down." He had helped her onto the short, waist height rock wall that offered sparse protection to the hall.

Hamish had then half ran to his new, gifted car. Just as he had gotten into the bright blue Saab, the heavens opened, and the down pour began.

He let out a few curses, of which his dad had unintentionally taught him long ago and quickly started the car. He drove through the parking lot and reached Celia in as little time as possible. What he found made him first pause, eyes glued to the beauty and then smile wider than he had ever before.

Celia stood in the rain, carefully done curls a mass of frizz, eyes closed and one hand held at collarbone level, looking at peace. She stood there, the dress, undoubtedly expensive, soaked through. Hamish snatched up the camera hidden in his car glove compartment and jumped out of the car, snapping a quick picture, before throwing the camera back in the car. .

Hamish had shown her the photo, once arriving at the hotel. Her eyes had brightened, and her whole body had perked up. "This is perfect. It... Its perfect. I... I have to write this down."

Two years later she had perfected that piece of music, inspired by the photo. It was a sturdy 34 pages.


End file.
